


The Weight of History

by alamoderoad



Category: THE iDOLM@STER
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 00:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamoderoad/pseuds/alamoderoad
Summary: She's not even a real rabbit, is she.





	The Weight of History

“I still can’t believe we were invited”.

The slightest tremor, this ghost of a thing quivering through Riamu’s throat leapt out in the confines of her grubby, one-room apartment. Bags filled with supermarket brand beer littering the floor, crumpled piles of garish seasonal must-buys filling whichever gaps remained proved challenging for Akira to gingerly wade through. Eventually settling down cross-legged at the tatami, she fished around in her makeup bag for eyeliner hastily stuffed. “Reaping the benefits of that old ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’ chestnut, huh”. Jagged canines on display, she couldn’t help but flash a grin. Cue a groan so guttural it would have no doubt sent birds soaring off into the distance, sirens blaring, children wailing. “By all means keep bringing up the incident which singlehandedly managed to ruin my life. That one thing which means I can’t show my face around the office anymore. It’s all cool.”

Akira rolled her eyes, cracking open one of the bottles Riamu had surreptitiously acquired, fidgeting while the salesperson’s plaintive stare bore a hole into her soul as if to say, ‘you, _again_?’. A taste. A wince. Based on the sporadic sessions drinking themselves into oblivion within the blinds-shut gloom of Riamu’s apartment, seldom did it seem to matter what their poison indiscriminately selected actually tasted like so long as it could be bought with a Z-lister idol’s appearance-based paycheck. Another mulish swig and Akira’s thoughts drifted off to The Latest Riamu Fuck-up™ which in truth was anything but, yet there was no point declaring as such for the umpteenth time. Keen as ever in the hopes of gaining traction-cum-relevancy, Riamu had tweeted how much she had been basking in the ethereal radiance of an underground darling’s performance. Akiba’s subcultural thrum coursing through her veins this wasn’t exactly unusual, bobbed pink head this permanent fixture floating in the midst of a salivating throng. Despite embarking on the arduous path of a 346Pro trainee the flames of her fervour had yet to be doused, continuing to stomp through seedy venues with gusto – a thought which brought a smile to Akira’s lips, eyeliner at last salvaged from the foundation-smeared wreckage. The real issue is what happened afterwards, when Abe Nana had replied.

“Social media is a curse. Even if what I happen to post has quite literally nothing to do with Usamin, all I get are ‘yeah’s. Bring up how rad Listen Flavour’s latest drop is? ‘Yeah.’ Mention how ultra mega super duper cute Mellow Yellow’s recent cover is? ‘Yeah.’ A curse, I tell you, a _curse_.” A slam, resounding through a forest of glass on the verge of annihilation. “I’m never posting anything again!”. Akira attempts to soften the blow, and mostly succeeds. While Riamu finds herself inexplicably drawn to subcultural sweethearts, all glossy-eyed and pink-cheeked, it’s Abe Nana – or Usamin, as fans affectionately took to calling her – truly revered, placed high upon the highest of sugary sweet pedestals. Elevated right into cotton candy clouds, a glittering galaxy. Flung out of space, based on giddy gushing courtesy of perhaps her most ardent devotee, Akira understood that in many ways Nana emblematized the underground scene. She was this almost mythical figure who crawled her way out of its sordid annals, firm on bringing a gimmick-based persona of her own imagining into the limelight. Perhaps most curious of all is that she managed to succeed where countless others failed. To the point that she was something of a phenomenon, languishing among the upper echelons of 346Pro as Someone Who Made It. 

Time and time again Nana has proven to be a source of immense solace for Riamu, looking toward her cartoonish existence whenever times were tough. When her mental health took a turn for the worse. When she dropped out of her nursing degree. Akira would find herself lost in the throes of contemplative silence whenever these morose matters were briefly alluded to, piecing fragmentary snatches of her friend’s life together. To be acknowledged on the same stage, to be considered an equal understandably left Riamu flabbergasted. Without processing Nana’s effortless enthusiasm, her affable well-wishes Riamu sent a brusque ‘yeah’ in reply, and continued to tweet throughout the performance. “I mean, Producer already told me to rein it in and I don’t want another one-to-one with Mishiro any time soon. If ever. Akari said the comments were a sign that I was sure as all heck gettin’ popular, but she doesn’t get it! How _could_ she!”.

Akira lingers on the final flick, razor sharp, as dark as the future Riamu had theoretically envisioned for herself. “Stop spiralling and chill. Tonight is going to be fun and nothing is going to happen. Now down the rest of that bottle before I do.” The fruits of her labour reflected in the mirror still somehow resting on the tatami’s surface, secretly pleased that the now signature flick can be achieved with minimal clean-up. All those Instagram lives with followers endlessly pleading for weekly routines did wonders for muscle memory. An audible huff and Riamu stood up, circling a textile mountain with practiced avoidance and stumbling toward her wardrobe. Doors ajar with its contents threatening to break free Akira could practically hear the gaudiest of vintage ruffles calling for salvation, Frankensteinian pieces haphazardly sewn begging for release. And she couldn’t help but cringe somewhat, baffled at how nothing ever seemed to quiiiite mesh. Although both possessed an innate passion for fashion, their taste veered down wildly different avenues. Being nameless faceless trainees they were nowhere near the stage of being acknowledged for presumably (hopefully) talent-related reasons, yet street photographers would often marvel at their ostensibly antagonistic aesthetic. Throwing Akari into the mix with cloying bucolic sensibilities results in a relatively diverse amalgamation of everything and nothing all at once. If no one gives a toss about listening to what they have to say, let their clothes do the talking. If their existence appears to result in fragmentary, elusive 346Pro snippets someone is bound to notice eventually. Realize they’re here. That they’re just as valid as everyone else.

“Putting your normie-ass taste aside for just a minute, is what I picked out okay?”. Akira had been doing so well. She really had been, but as mild irritation flared couldn’t resist succumbing to the seductive lure of jeering at someone who habitually print-screened cat memes onto t-shirts with an air of unwarranted smugness. “Well you’re not going to make it to any trending pages for the right reasons with _that_ get-up, that’s for sure. But I bet Nana will love it. Which is what you really care about, right.” Recoiling slightly, a pang of guilt settles deep in Akira’s stomach.

Well. That certainly came out more vitriol-fuelled than hypothetically intended.

Akira could practically feel Riamu’s searing gaze before she saw it, imagining the hurt flashing across her scrunched-up face. So much for sisterly solidarity or whatever feelgood bullshit Chihiro had been plastering around the training halls that week.

“Who cares if it’s what I want. Have you ever taken a closer look at her style?”. Akira shrugs, busying herself with the mirror once again. Ah. Looks like one line wasn’t as sleek as she first thought. “It’s all romantic reveries, storybook charm. She’s everything an idol ought to be, that Usamin.” At that Akira finds herself unwittingly glancing askance, only to find the guilt sinking deeper still, threatening to overwhelm.

“Cute. Not like me.”

Softly morphing into something she can’t place as a remarkably sombre, far-off expression blooms across Riamu’s face.

“I can only pretend to be nice and even then I still screw up.”

A cartoonishly vacuous gimmick destined for failure, as hands shakily splay across the fairy tale expanse of the dress Riamu painstakingly chose.

“I don’t deserve to be seen with her.”

As collectively revered as the seventh Cinderella Girl may be, in that moment Akira decides it doesn’t really count for much when Riamu is this upset.

**\- - -**

“Oh for heaven’s sake guys, you both knew this thing was sorta important! Now I’m not saying you’re loaded, exactly, but you’re probably one excuse-me-miss away from a reporter meeting their monthly quota. Didn’t we have someone from 765Pro not too long ago give a grand old speech to us on all this? Now I’m not saying someone like that could find themselves inside a fancy industry party, gosh no, but-”. Akari grumbled as she busied herself collecting bottles strewn across the tatami’s grubby expanse, worsened by makeup fingerprints and crumbs of dubious origin, scowl etched deep. Scoffing, Akira lightly feathered her fringe. “C’mon, we didn’t even drink all that much. Honest. We’re just about buzzed enough to stave off all the bullshit. Right, Riams?”. Still a touch downcast, eyes firmly trained on her phone, she nevertheless offered an almost imperceptible nod in response. Was no doubt scrolling through a litany of 346Pro get-ready-with-me stories, drinking in the glitz and glamour. No bonus points for guessing whose account she had been refreshing ever since this apparently started several minutes ago. Akira just about stopped herself from sighing. When Riamu got into that state of obsequious spiralling there was no convincing her. Truly marvellous timing considering Nagi and Hayate were en route to pick them up. Just great.

Akari peered over Riamu’s shoulder, oooh-ing and ahhh-ing, exasperation seemingly having been swept up into the splendour of the prospect of a big city party. “Can you believe it guys, our first industry shindig? We might actually get to talk to Akane (just look at her _hair_ oh my gosh do you see that), Ranko (how does she always look so divine is she even real), and Usa-”

“And who are we, in the greater scheme of things. We’re entering with the Hisakawa twins who have properly debuted. The best we’ve gotten is a one-off variety stint. Our ineffectuality has me feeling gloomy as shit.” A chill suffuses the air following Riamu’s indignant declaration, even as boisterous cheers, tinny and distant, echo. Akari exchanges glances with Akira, mouthing ‘has she been like this all night?’. The latter shrugs, grabbing her bag. “To answer your question we are incredible and tonight everyone will know who we are for the right reasons”. The former smiles despite herself, enthusiastically chiming in and walking toward the door. Riamu hovers, uncertain**.**

She just needs a little push, Akira reasons out. Up and at ‘em. Seize the day. Night. Splaying her hands across Riamu’s back, the impulse to suddenly pull back catches her off guard. The heat which radiates off a very tangible and very in-front-of-her body is dizzying, inducing a flash of something Akira can’t place. A cavernous gnawing. This uncomfortable awareness that they are both people, their taking the piss moments before a million miles away. But she swallows it down, down, down, and keeps pushing until Riamu reluctantly grumbles a fine, fine, fine, I’m going already.

**\- - -**

In the taxi it isn’t long before Akari and the twins eagerly launch into a rundown of all that had transpired off-stage during ‘True Colours’, and as much as the prospect of potentially salacious gossip would generally arouse Akira’s interest she just wasn’t feeling it. Not tonight. Looking out the car’s window, she tried to focus on the city in all its electric gloom. Yet all she could see was Riamu’s solemn expression illuminated by her phone screen.


End file.
